


...in Velvet (in her hand she holds the Moon)

by dame_ordsmeden



Series: My love walks... [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Thor (2011), songfic (sorta)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 16:16:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dame_ordsmeden/pseuds/dame_ordsmeden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How a Yule feast, mead, wine, and seiðr bring Loki and Sif together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	...in Velvet (in her hand she holds the Moon)

Yule.

If I had a favourite holiday, this would be it… the gathered dark, the cold; oh I feel _alive_ at Yule. I say ‘if’, because… it is also our high-court season, and as the years pass I have  more responsibilities shifted my way. Glibly I circulate through the feasts; stroking egos and soothing grievances. My silver-tongue wearies of it all: the pettiness, the self-serving drama fiends. But the worst, in my estimation?  The hens proffering their chicks, and the chicks that even proffer themselves, seeking to gain: favour, my title, my heart and name. I would prefer the solace of my chambers on nights such as these, with only the clear-cold sky and Mother Yggðrasil for company.

But I am _useful_ , so I am used. And once I’ve done father’s bidding, I _do_ get time for myself - sharp words can be fun, in their fashion – and stripping the preening birds of their feathers when they see it not? Oh, that is a _delight_ … Not a one of them could prove my equal. Not a one of them would I take to my bed – well, not a second time, at least.

After clipping one particularly persistent wing of her flight-feathers, (“ _Lady Sigyn, I do hope your Lady-Mother and yourself will excuse me…_ ”) I’ve had enough. My calculated smile slides into place and she does not realise; pity. Perhaps she will cipher it eventually – but I hold no hope for that. Turning to head for the balcony – cool air not cloying with spilt mead and sweets – the breath is pulled from my body as she arrives on Hogun’s arm.

Our shield-maiden, our goddess - Sif.

I almost, almost misstep. She is… _resplendent_. The twittering sparrows in their soft warm colors are  nothing compared to her. Her dress is the blackest heavy velvet, showing less skin but revealing _more_. Flashes of red, red at her wrists, her neck and why… this is… ( _I will tell myself later that this was the first time I truly saw her. I lie even to myself - I have always seen her. Even as children, especially when she asked me to cut her hair. But I am convinced, still, in this moment that she has not ever seen me.)_

For once in a dress she does not move awkwardly; as if the weight of the velvet anchors her like armor. She is smiles and glow; the pale skin of her neck, the flush of her lips, the amber of her eyes. Surveying the room in her sly way, that amber alights sharply… on me. Her eyebrow starts to lift and to my shock, I realise – I’m staring. Two options present themselves in the sliver of time: lick my ( _suddenly dry?_ ) lips and smile? Or the latter idea, which wins - the placid mask snaps back into place.

In a welcome distraction, the golden boy roars his happy greeting to her: his sister-in-all-but-blood. He tries to whirl her into a dance, and the red on her dress moves like flames. Their differences complement each other, a set of scales balanced. She is merry, laughing. She is light, brighter and purer than the golden hall.

Wine flows, music plays. Mead and heady spices sing in our veins. I relent, and dance a few turns; once with Sigyn, the others with nameless sparrows. Dancing is not one of my favorite pastimes, but I’m more than adequate for the task. I refuse to think more on the fact my eyes keep seeking her out. She’s one of us: a sister, a comrade, a friend. She is certainly not what my mind ( _mind? Heart, more like..._ ) has just named her - raven-maid. Given the opportunity, I would dance with her - so I dance with others. The word ‘appearances’ clicks in my head; that I must maintain them. As if we’re already involved in some way that they must be maintained? As if there’s… no, that thought is a book which must be closed and shelved.

A ‘figure dance’ begins and she is lithe and flowing and with Fandral (who’d learned last Yule just how much touch she will allow). Partners pass and are passed again, and she lands in front of me, her back to my chest. Her waist feels tiny without armor. I spin her about and…

_time dilates; her head back laughing, laughing. She tips back up to me, and time is her pupil, wide with wine; I could kiss her now, I would love to know the taste of…_

Time shrinks; the music pulls her on to the next, and the next. The song ends; she slips away, velvet swirl of a raven’s wing and I want to follow, to talk but my tongue is… stayed. I cannot begin to make of what to say to her, what truths might spill. A clap to my shoulder stuns me from reverie – Fandral’s laugh is a brass bell ringing out. He gestures with his goblet to her retreating form, the sway of her hip. “Who could have seen our little Sif would look so ravishing, eh?”

“Indeed.” I nod, lifting a goblet for myself from a passing servant.

“I pity the brave soul who asks her about it on the ‘morrow, though.” he chides, grinning. “The flat of her practice blades will breed bruises to match that dress.”  

I smirk in agreement and drink deep, without noticing first it’s mead I’ve taken… Oh, flames consume me – I meant for wine, not this silken fire that will loosen my mask. I’ve had nearly more than enough drink already this evening. Ah, well – whatever the Norns have woven, so be it. I toss back the rest of the mead in one go, savoring the flickering warmth uncurling in my chest.

Finally slipping out to the wide expanse of the balcony I find she is there, leant against a pillar with eyes cast skyward. The half-glow from the hall limns her; in the velvet she is all sheen and softness. She hums, airy and light; not to the music that spills from the hall, but some other tune I cannot place.

“My lady Sif, I… I thank you for the dance.”

“What little there was of it, my Lord-prince.” As I approach, she sets down the goblet she’d been holding, stem between her palms. She bows her head and gently lays her right palm to her heart.

“You needs not salute me so, my lady. We are friends, are we not?”

“I believe we are, my Lo…” she catches herself, mid-word – “Loki.”

“My Loki? Quite an interesting choice of words, _my_ lady.” My quirked eyebrow is intentional, but the _tone_ those words were spoken with...

“You know that was not… oh, hush. You know what was meant.”

“Do I? Truly, Sif – what I mean to say is that you’re quite the vision tonight.”

“Pardon?” This earns me a mirrored eyebrow-raising, the goblet brought back to hand. Closing the remaining distance, I finally clearly see the red is not flames but runes… runes script down and back up the neck of her dress, runes swirl around her wrists. Delicately stark; and there is this want to read to decipher to _trace_ them…

“My dear, even Fandral could not help but notice. Whatever impression you intended to make, consider it done.”

“I intended no impression, just expression. And Fandral knows better than to do or _say_ anything to me,” she retorts, tongue gone sharp as her glaive.

“Indeed he does,” I chuckle. ( _But I do not, Mother Yggðrasil help me I do not…_ ) “So, what _did_ you intend to express? That our favourite shield-maiden is more than cold steel? That she might seek to captivate, without needing to strong-arm her captive?”

“I only intended to express that I can, in fact, wear a dress.” Her tongue dulls a bit again, but the frustration is still plain on her face.

“Ah, but you exceeded that, and excellently. Why, you have even captivated Mani himself.”

“How do you mean… Loki, are you drunk?” Again, the eyebrow rises… in this light, it is distractingly lovely.

“I may be, Sif. But humor me. Look into your cup and tell me what you see.” Standing so close now, so very close to her as she looks down into the goblet, half-full of the spiced red I am so fond of. Her right hand tugs absently at the sleeve of her left, and she tips the goblet a bit to see… the moon’s reflection, rippled and white on the dark wine. She startles, and laughter bubbles up as she inclines her gaze back to mine. She startles again - but this time it is because her laughter stops, abruptly. My masks have fallen away, she can see that. My eyes betray me.

“Loki…” she says, half a whisper. I reach out without looking down, idly tracing one of the runes at her wrist; fingertip following the raised thread. Her eyes question me, disbelieving.

“You have utterly charmed me, raven-maid.” No silver-gilt, just the taste of truth thick on my tongue. My fingers slide around hers, lifting the goblet to my lips. I drink deep, deliberate and slow. She tugs it gently ( _who would know her hands could be that gentle_ ) back toward her - but not away from my hand. She too tips to her lips ( _so very red_ ) and swallows deep. I have seen her throat work a thousand thousand times, but never like this. She lowers the goblet and plucks it away, setting it down on the railing.

“Sif…” I start to say, but her lips deny me the rest. Her hands slide to my neck, drawing me down and I give. I give, I yield I surrender to the taste of her lips and wine and _her_. My own hands settle on her hips, then glide up her sides and she trembles ever so slightly. Her lips are wondrous; gentle and as full as I’d imagined ( _when, when did I start imagining this?_). A notion suddenly strikes: I mouth words against her lips ( _earning me a shiver_ ) and brush my hands down her shoulder blades. She breaks the kiss, pulls back at the tingle of seiðr dancing down her arms.

“What did you? Oh…” and she backs away, marveling at the feathered shawl I’ve given her dress. She turns, stretching her arms.

“Raven-wings, for the raven-maid,” I bow with a flourish. She laughs again, high and sweet. In that moment, I am certain I will never tire of hearing that particular intonation.

“Loki, it… it’s _stunning_.” She spins slowly, her arms supple with predatory grace. “Thank you,” she says, warm and sincere. The feathers catch the light, all the colours luminescing. She swoops back toward me, and I catch her waist again and spin, lifting her – arms spread, she is some night creature come to life before me. Her eyes lock on mine. For a second, less than a second I want to look away, to… fear her. She is War, in all its destructive grace – but she is warm, and thrillingly alive in my arms.

“Unfortunately, it’s not permanent,” I demur while setting her down. She affects an appalling pout; then laughs again.

“That you’d do something so beautiful for me is enough. Now, I believe we were in the midst of something both related and entirely different.” She reaches up around my neck, pulling me down again. I bring my forehead to rest against hers, and the look in her eyes _burns_ away whatever masks remained.

“Come the next time we meet in the practice yard, will I live to regret this?” I purr, sliding my hand up between us; brushing my knuckles across the flat of her stomach, toward her breastbone where the runes trail out in tendrils of red.

“ _If_ you live, my prince…” and her voice catches as my knuckles graze barely below the swell of her breast, “… you will  not regret it. Not for a moment.

“Threatening regicide, of a sort? Dangerous words, my lady. Perhaps I should have a discussion with-”

“Loki? Stop talking.” One hand slides into the hair at the nape of my neck, the other trails down my throat, and I just cannot suppress the shiver that elicits. Our lips meet gently, once… twice… and bellows of laughter erupt from the hall. She spins loose from my arms; my fingers snagging a few delicate feathers as the rest evaporate in a pale greenish haze.

“No one has seen us, Sif. Relax. It’s just Volstagg and… the representative from Vanaheim, I believe. They were sitting down together as I came out here ( _‘to find you’, I somehow manage not to add_ ).”

“We should go back.” she sighs, starting towards the warm light. “Someone will miss us. Note our absence, or somesuch.”

“So? Who would assume two such absences equal one?”

“We’ll miss toasting the turn of the season.”

“I believe we’ve already toasted, my lady. Come here…” and she turns back to me, head tilted. Studying. _Deciding_. I hold out my hand, palm up. Her movements betray her next words; she steps back into my arms even while asking “Would you have us stay out in the cold?” ( _seiðr sings, hushed and sweet_ )

“What cold?” I smile down at her as she sways, catching herself by leaning against my arm on her hip. Her eyes go wide as she looks over my shoulder at the reddish-copper walls of her chambers.

“Oh, you are _full_ of surprises, aren’t you… how did you, _when_ did you…?” She trails off, looking around as if she’s not quite certain we’re really here. She sits down heavily on the edge of her bed, bracing her hands to either side. I blink slowly, eyes adjusting to the brighter warmth. I go to take a step toward her, and the room tilts slightly on its axis…

“Loki? Are you alright?” she says, with a note of concern.

“I’m… fine. Just fine. A bit too much wine, is all.” ( _wine, and mead, and pushing my talents too hard…_ )

“You don’t look fine,” she replies, pushing herself back up from the bed. “What was that? Something new, for certain.”

“Not entirely new, no. I’m _fine_ , Sif.” To prove the point ( _and convince myself_ ), I let the seiðr crackle and dance over my fingers.

“So, you decided absconding with me to my chambers was a good solution? Presumptuous, don’t you think?” she huffs, and I’m only half-sure she’s jesting.

“I do not think it at all presumptuous, dear Sif. I do think it the least likely to cause complication. I can leave your chambers the same way we arrived, at any time – but should you be seen leaving mine, well…”

“I meant that you presumed this was the natural outcome of a few kisses, my prince.” ( _My prince? Hmm. Yes, that’s a step in the wrong direction._)

“Is that all it was, all it is - a few kisses? I’ll take my leave, then, if you’d prefer it.” I gesture to the door, conciliatory, and start to pull the shadows in. Funny, it doesn’t usually…

I open my eyes, and I’m flat on my back – and the walls are the wrong color. There’s a hand under my head, lifting gently - and a goblet pressed to my lip. Cool water; I drink slowly while my vision swims back to focus. Oh _damn_ …

“You are drunk, aren’t you.”

“I’m not drunk, Sif.” I sigh, resignedly. “Just… overreached my abilities, I think.” I realise my head is resting against her thigh. I feel the muscles shift as she leans over me, one hand absently tousling my hair. When did touch this intimate become so natural? Why doesn’t this feel like an outright intrusion; or even the slightest bit awkward? I reach my hand up, placing it over hers.

“Sorry. I’ll stop…” and as she starts to lift her hand away, I press it down and shift my head so her fingers sink deeper.

“Please don’t…” comes from deep in my chest, as I roll on my side to face her. My lids feel heavy; her touch is almost _too_ right. The movements of her fingertips send little pulses of pleasure and warmth down my spine. I close my eyes, and try to picture the colour of her seiðr… silver-white as starlight, fading to red at the edges. Blood on steel. Even her _seiðr_ is War.

“Loki, what are we doing?” She lifts my hand away, turns her unfocused touch to long, deliberate strokes that run the length of my hair.

“Mmm?” I rumble, opening my eyes again.

“What are we doing?” she repeats, her hand stilling. “You’re… the truest friend I have. You _understand_ me. You _listen_ to me.”

“Sif.” She looks away, stares hard at the low fire in the hearth. Logs shift and crack, loosing a cascade of sparks. I cautiously wrap my hand around her hip.

“No, really – what are we doing? This, what if we ruin…”

“We won’t.” I assert. “Have you asked yourself why this feels like the most natural, normal, _right_ thing we’ve done in years?”

“Why it feels like we’ve always been this way, somehow.” Her voice has gone wistful, almost sad. ( _Can’t have that…_ )

“On the floor, less than completely comfortable?”

“Loki…” she hisses, an exasperated warning.

“Sorry, sorry. Why do you think we could ruin this? We’re not children anymore. Two adults, seeking pleasure and finding it in each other? What harm could come from that-”  

“Plenty. If pleasure is all one party or the other is seeking. But…”

“But what?” With this, she finally turns her eyes back to mine, so full of emotion… she never wears a mask. Her heart is as clearly seen as her face.

“I see the way you look at me, sometimes. When you think I don’t. When that placid, schooled detachment you wear slides out of place, accidentally. It makes me wonder if this was supposed to have happened, sooner. When we were younger – but you were away so often, training - and I was fighting so hard to-”

“Become what you are, _who_ you are. The shield-maiden, the fiercest warrior Odin could ever have the pleasure of employing. I was walking the same path, Sif - _becoming_. If we missed the chance then, perhaps the thread was passed under the weave, and has come back into the fabric. I do not deny I’ve looked at you that way, recently. I’d be a fool if I did – because you are _my_ truest friend. You are… ( _and the words surprise even me, as they fall_ ) my equal, my balance. I do not say this lightly. Yours is the only female company I don’t tire of. And have you ever known me to be this _relaxed_ …”

“Well, I’ve never known you to drink to excess-” she smirks, and I cut that thought off, pulling her lips down to mine as I prop myself up on an elbow. She is supple velvet and rich heat; our arms wrapping around each other. I lick at her lips and she yields, with a little humming sigh. Her tongue is as deft as her hands are with weapons; then her teeth grazing my lower lip pulls a low growl from my chest. She trembles but nips at it again and I fist a hand in her hair, pulling her head back. Desire burns the alcohol and weakness from my veins as I kiss down her jaw, down her neck. She whimpers - the sweetest small sound in her throat. Somehow, we get to our feet without breaking contact, fingers deftly unlacing unclasping unbuckling oh this heat is a rush is a demand a plea…

“You are no maid, are you?” I purr at her throat, her hands sliding over my back as I palm one of her impossibly perfect breasts.

“I am not,” she gasps out, blunted fingernails raking up my spine, “and I… ( _oh, that whimper again as my hand trails lower_ ) do not need to ask about you. I’ve heard the servant girls’ whispered stories, about sounds that have come from your chambers.”

“Well, I do pride myself-” and she hooks a leg behind my knee, pulling me off-balance and sideways onto her bed, with her.

“Not just from your chambers, but from your _throat_.” She smiles, feral – because I’ve no mask left to hide my surprise. Diving under my chin, her lips are a wonder, a pleasure I can’t quantify… I lay back; she kisses and nips at my throat, hands ghosting over my chest, my stomach. Her lips, her hands… the calluses play this friction that I just… ohh. Her mouth. Her _mouth_.

“Sif…” I hiss, biting down on my lip. Her tongue-tip strokes the length of me, and my hips start to rise of their own accord. I reach for her shoulder, her hair, whatever purchase my hands can find. Her shoulder, yes… tug at it, pull her away before what little control I have breaks. Her mouth leaves, her hand lingers… a caress, sending a hot pulse of pleasure to my spine. I roll us over, let the mischief dance in my eyes and tell her: “ _My_ turn.”  

With her hands in my hair; I trail kisses down her throat, her cleavage, and the corded muscles of her stomach. Back up, to her breasts; and slide one hand between her thighs. Her jaw clenches; so I lave at her nipple and gently take it between my teeth. “I would have your moan, _my_ lady…” and slipping my thumb against her pearl, warm and slick, she relents… soft whimpers at first, hands leaving my hair and fisting in the bed linens. When she does moan, it is breathless and shuddering and _so_ beautiful. I grant her a moment’s respite before replacing my thumb with my tongue…

The rest of the night passes, moments of it stilled and framed in my mind. The keen of her climax. The taste of her, salted as where the river meets the sea. The awesome strength of her legs, wrapped ‘round and pulling me deeper still inside her. Locking eyes, not breathing or moving – swearing I can see my reflection in the dark of her pupil. Wondering if she can see her own, as well. Whispers, murmurs, _sighs_. Her hair, around it all – her raven-dark hair, soft and scented with some combination of spices I can’t discern… 

Dawn pulls me to wakefulness, with her breath warm against my chest. This sense of peace… it feels so fragile, but every second it resolves – ice becoming glass, becoming crystal. I cup her cheek, slip my fingers up against the nape of her neck, and whisper gentle words just before pulling the shadows in around me.

Rekindling the fire in my own hearth, I smile to myself at what she’ll see in the mirror when she wakes – lips flush and slightly swollen; bruises on collarbone ( _how it fits to my own lips_ ) and hips ( _how tight I held them, in the absolute glory of her astride me_) and checking her neck, lifting her hair away, she’ll feel and then see – tiny plaits, with raven-feathers hanging from them.

I wonder if they’ll still be there, the next time we meet.

**Author's Note:**

> Ever have a songfic just explode in your head?   
> Well, that’s kinda what happened, here. This is the start of a whole series (still a W.I.P.); but it’s about half-written at this point.   
> I’m new to this – it’s not the first fic I’ve written, but it is the first I’ll be sharing with the rest of the internets. Comments and feedback are both appreciated and encouraged!


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